


Hunted; The Tale of an Unwoman

by JinxxTheInsomniac



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV), The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
Genre: Concentration Camps, F/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Other, POV First Person, Survival, The Colonies, Unperson, Unwoman, Will get Darker Later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 02:25:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15742239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinxxTheInsomniac/pseuds/JinxxTheInsomniac
Summary: It started out with the country-wide rejection of woman's rights and it only got worse with each new day.Meet Dahlia-Grace Newbury; a recently classified 'Unwoman' who was among the first of many to be sent to live in 'The Colonies' to serve her country as a pollution/radiation cleaner without financial benefits or even hazmat suits.  It seemed things couldn't get much better than slave-labor in a deadly environment until she and several other Unwomen are bought and sold to a Commander who's found a way to cope without the benefits of pornography, strip clubs, and other such amenities which have since been made strictly illegal by the government.It was out of the furnace and into the fire for these young women who've been let loose on a tropical island to play a terrifying game of Hide-n'-Seek against their owner wherein being caught promises death but victory promises freedom.Fourteen days; Six Unwomen; Eight CommandersMay the best one win.





	Hunted; The Tale of an Unwoman

**Author's Note:**

> I went for somewhat of a darker tone to this than what our dear Mrs. Atwood might've already described in her book, using some tidbits from the atrocities of World War II to further cement just how horrific the circumstances are. Hopefully, she might've liked my rendition of her original idea, as I mean only to partially represent the true artistry that is found within 'The Handmaid's Tale' and nothing more. 
> 
> Please feel free to comment/critique at your leisure!

They called us ‘Unwomen’.  Why? I wasn’t entirely sure.

The definition itself would change with each person that was asked, but one thing remained abundantly clear:

Unwomen were rejects; unwanted by this new society for one reason or another.  From what I could tell, some of the reasons were because we did not adhere to the particular qualifications of womanhood to which the Christian Bible so declared.  For example, some of us were diseased, and not with something that would otherwise justify exile, but rather with simplistic things such as eczema or chronic acne.  Anything that could be perceived as a physical manifestation of a sexually-transmitted disease was used as justification behind her casting-out.  Another instance would be that the woman was tattooed or had some severe handicap which made her an eye-sore to the ‘perfect’ populaces.

The rest of us, however, were declared ‘unwomen’ for our inability to bear children to full term. 

I was one such victim of circumstance, and I found it somewhat amusing that my infertility, which had once served as a complimentary benefit in this once promiscuous society we’d been forced to abandon, now was used as collateral against me in this recently established utopia.  How the tables have turned…    

No one was absolutely certain about what would become of us upon the installment of our new title, but it was clear that nothing good could come of such a crude label. It was as though our significance as women had been stolen from us; reaped from us.  We were no more akin to man than dogs, and that was the grim truth of it all.

At first, we couldn’t receive our own wages without a man’s signature, then we couldn’t own our own properties.  Our rights as members of society were robbed from us little by little until there were more homeless women on the streets than men by at least ten to one.  It seemed that things couldn’t get any worse… 

… and then it announced itself like a thief in the night. 

Hundreds upon hundreds of us were rounded up from not only our temporal homes, but from anywhere we were found, and brought to a neglected station wherein several city buses stood in wait.  Having formerly been used to carry passengers between major cities, these buses were gigantic and stood over us like a collection of rusty, abandoned skyscrapers.  I went without complaint, starvation, and fatigue rendering me harmless in the eyes of the men whom since abandoned their police-grade firearms in favor of the taser-like benefits of a cattle-prod.  

 Besides that, I’d already watched a handful of spirited unwomen be shoved into the luggage compartments beneath the buses before the doors were slammed shut with a screeching wail and so chose to remain obedient against the soldiers who ruthlessly directed us.  How I pitied the six or seven rebels who’d been enclosed in that unventilated, claustrophobic prison.

As soon as it was my turn to be forced into the shadowy bus’s interior, I felt panic root me to the spot worse than it had ever before.

With the fluorescent lights removed, the only available light source within the bus was the bullet-proof windows which were already far too murky and thick to allow for the sunlight to properly filter through.  Squinting through the darkness brought the grim realization that all of the seats within the massive city bus had been removed save for the driver’s, and everyone already inside were huddling against the furthermost corners in order to assure some semblance of immobility when the time would ultimately come that we would be moved.  The youngest of us (which, thankfully, were few in number), sat bunched together in the corner nearest the dismantled bathroom stall, their wiry little frames barely illuminated within the dim interior while they held one another.  Though the situation at hand was justifiably terrifying, these tiny soldiers watched on with wide, determined eyes, their lips set in a hard line across their plump faces as they beheld the chaos surrounding them.  I quickly fell to the ground and made my way to the least-populated corner before gripping the meager railing which outlined the bus’s perimeter.  Everyone was fighting for even the smallest fraction of the stainless-steel handrail, even going as far as to prying and twisting the hands already there until space was eventually relinquished.  I watched an older woman’s palm get wrenched away from the handrail before a sickening twist of her arm rendered her a wailing, desperate mess.  I wanted to help her, to ensure that she wasn’t critically injured, but didn’t want to abandon my place on the railing.    

“We aren’t going far…” A former nun declared against the carnage as though such a proclamation would calm us in any sort of way. 

Moments before any of us could offer up a word of gratitude to the older woman, the door was slammed shut, a cruel clamor of locks resonating mere seconds afterward.  That’s when we all collectively noticed the hundreds now crammed into our bus, each and every fragment of visible floor gone.  There were too many of us aboard.  

Four men in sturdy, grey uniforms (men we’ve been instructed to refer to as ‘Angels’) and their signature cattle-prods clenched in each of their left gloved hands stood at the helm of our overpopulated vessel, their pitiless gaze raking over ours ever so often before a fifth Angel sat at the driver’s seat.  The four soldiers each clamped their empty hands over a leather strap on the ceiling before the bus’s ignition gave a rowdy cough and the engine assumed a relentless humming. 

The noise itself was absolutely maddening as an unruly choir of wails and shrieks echoed in response to the new sensations.

Then, we began to move, and the true panic ensued.

The vibrations, as well as the energy of the bus, caused a great many of us to fall over from our original sitting position against the linoleum floor, and it took a great deal of struggle before we realized there was no point, and that we would be tossed and turned no matter the effort we put towards preventing such a fate.  I had been leaning against the right wall of the bus before the bus had set off on its maiden voyage, but now found myself adrift, my arms splayed out in an attempt to rise once more without knocking someone else over in my distress. Each bump in the road caused heads to clap together and balance to be lost once more, and yet the Angels before us remained as rigid as statues throughout the entire ordeal, refusing to help even the weakest of us as they rolled desperately along the grimy floors.  Their presence was the only way I was able to collect my bearings, which in itself was an effort all on its own.  I reached out, and someone caught my hand, pulling me up and into a sitting position before I could realize what was happening. 

A girl my age sat across from me, her doe-like eyes scrutinizing my own while she held onto my shoulders to keep me upright while another lurch in the road sent several more women knocking into each other.  I was nauseated and dizzy but grateful that the other woman had helped me.  I tried to thank her, but my voice was lost to the commotion resounding around us.  We held one another as tightly as though we were sisters while the sea of other woman roiled around us like a stormy sea.

I had scarcely been able to see her face.

 

****

 

                “We’re here…” A hushed whisper flitted past my ear, causing me to jolt from the haze having overtaken my body.  The unnatural silence clinging to the air seemed to take everyone by surprise as the bus’s engine abruptly cut. 

                I looked around as the Angels began hoisting the various passengers up by their arms, refusing any pity to even the most brittle of our company.  Why were they so unkind? They were supposed to be Angels…

                 My sister and I held onto one another as we were yanked out from the tiny doorframe.  She nearly fell but I caught her seconds before she would’ve hit the ground.

                “Thank you,” She breathed shakily as she squeezed my hand. 

                Her brunette hair was in a matted disarray around her pale, bony face, yet her amber eyes shone.  A romper hung loosely around her knobby limbs no matter how tightly she wound the belt around her hips, but that made her all the more alluring to me.  

                An Angel dressed in the same grey uniform as everyone else’s stepped towards me before extending a pair of prison-grade cuffs. “Hands in front.”

                Delirious from the obnoxiously loud and bright environment, I held my hands forward without pause for consideration, anxiety rushing over me as the chilly metal pinched around my wrists.  He shoved me forward and it took every bit of strength I had to keep from falling over to the mud-painted earth. My sister was right behind me but was quick to catch up, her arms sporting identical bracelets.

The clamor around us only grew in volume and intensity as more and more buses were emptied of their cargo.  We were ushered quite roughly by men carrying cattle-prods into a solitary group of close to a thousand women, young and old.  The few who’d been forced into the luggage compartments were the last to appear amidst the unruly droves, bleeding from an abundance of lacerations along their bodies. Clearly, the trip had been absolutely dreadful on their end.

They were dragged to the forefront of the crowd as though they were disruptive schoolchildren about to be made an example of before the classroom.  Three of them were taunting the Angels as well as this new worldview we were being forced to adopt, their rage and determination manifesting itself as spittle against the corners of their chapped, bloody lips. 

Many called out in agreeance to the loud campaigners, but most others (namely the ones having suffered the more brutal caresses of the Angel’s newly favored weapons) merely watched on with both reservation yet pride fixated in their soulful gazes.  My sister was one such member of the latter collective.    

                An ear-splitting clap of the air caused a multitude of women to scream and fall silent as one Angel opened fire heavenward.  All eyes turned towards the soldierly creature who sneered malevolently in response to our fearful silence, his stout gait just barely concealed behind a podium with a microphone wired to it. 

                “That’s much better, is it not?” The weathered old man declared rhetorically after a few moments had passed. No one knew how to respond and so were glancing to one another nervously for some form of reassurance.  Where were we?

                “Now, many of you may be wondering where we’ve taken you and why, and you will know in due time.”  His stony gaze raked over us as though he were trying to see through our clothes.  “However, my friends and I need to know that we can trust you.  So, in order to do that as effectively and as speedily as possible, each of you will submit yourselves to a few security measures.  As long as you comply and assure us that you can be relied on, then this process shall be as simple as your yearly health exam.”  Amusement seemed to stretch his ancient features, as though he’d confided some humorous riddle that none of us could relate to.

                “Yea, too bad them’s got taken from us.”  A boisterous woman announced over the dense silence having encapsulated us, causing a few to chuckle under their breaths.  “Do you have another example you can share with us,… _sir_?”

                The menacing superior looming over us shot a condemning glare in the direction of the one having interrupted the opaque stillness.  With the snap of a gloved finger, two Angels having shirked the perimeter nearest the loudmouth proceeded to tear into the crowds, brandishing the cattle-prods ahead of them like a torch in order to assure that no one got in the way.  I couldn’t watch as a cacophony of muted thuds, followed by the woman’s agonized wails filled the muggy air until she stopped screaming entirely. 

                “Now, are there any more complaints that are needing to be attended to?” The speaker inquired patronizingly.  When silence was his only reply, a malicious grin leaped across his features.

“Good…”  

                As soon as the microphone had ceased its ringing, all the Angels before us began the laborious tasks of forcing us each, one by one, into the various stations designated by a plethora of canvas tents, the first of the tents being the only few visible from our standpoint.   A single weather-worn chair and a man in a white coat stood at the ready for the first of many patrons to submit to his authority.  It took little time before the first of his victims was unceremoniously shoved into the chair and a pitched buzzing could be heard from each tent. 

                They were shaving us…

                Like animals for a chemical-study.  

                A great many women began fighting with renewed vigor against the Angels, thrashing against them even as the cattle-prods shocked them over and over to the point of great burgundy welts emerging over the contours of their flesh. 

A sob caught in my throat when an older woman collapsed and declined to rise once more, even as three Angels surrounded and struck her a multitude of times.  Was she dead? I knew it was more than just possible.

                My momentary distraction permitted my friend’s grasp to worm itself away, and I watched in abject horror as one of the Angels dragged her by her arm towards the awaiting barber whose tent was already layered with an abundance of multicolored hair.  By the time she’d arrived on the chair, her fighting had ceased, and the buzzing took on a more condemning pitch as it tore through her thick locks until there were bald patches slowly emerging along her hairline.  Despite having only known her for a short while, it felt as though a knife had been driven into my heart as I watched her sob forlornly and beg for him to stop his fervent ministrations.  Moments after her newly naked head had been revealed, she was taken to another tent behind that one where a number of other women were shouting and begging for one thing or another.  It would be roughly fifteen customers later before I would finally be seated on that accursed barber’s chair.  The buzzing resounded against my ear as it dipped rhythmically with each generous swipe of the metal razors. I felt no shame as my once vibrant copper hair fell away to pool at my feet amidst the rest of the piles.  Finally, the buzzing ceased and I was hustled off the chair and into the next tent without another moment to ponder what’d just happened.  I felt a new lightness to the top of my head.

                Two Angels stood at the center of this particular tent, their ironclad gaze scarcely meeting mine as though I were a beggar requesting a handout.  

                “Strip.” A heavy-laden voice demanded upon my arrival to the next tent.

                “I-I’m sorry?” I stammered at the abrasive tone of his voice.

                “I said…” He yanked at the latex gloves already stretched over his bulbous little hands. “Strip.”  

                I glanced around the tent only to realize that I was alone.  If I were to scream for help, would it matter? 

                My fingers fumbled and shook simply to unbutton the shorts I’d chosen to wear that day, never mind unclipping my bra and the other such niceties.  The Angel watched without interest before I tossed the abandoned pile of clothes into the designated bin.  After a careful once-over (and an excessively prolonged groping of my breasts and buttocks), they gave me leave to go, and so I did.  I felt as naked as a baby bird now yet saw no point in attempting to censor myself.  What was the point?

                Glancing around, I was drowning in a sea of bald heads as they all stared numbly off into the distance.  I began searching for my friend but was quickly halted by a sharp jolt of electricity lurching through my shoulder.  The pain was so abrupt and so unexpected that I hadn’t even had a moment to cry out before it was gone.

                “Eyes to yourself!” The guard announced sharply, causing me to cower while I nursed the prominent stripe already protruding against the edge of my shoulder.  

                Ahead of us were four more desks, each one stationed with two Angels interrogating each of us one by one.  I was too far away to fully understand what they were asking of us, but the result appeared the same for each girl:

                It began with at least three or four questions of which the victim of circumstance would answer or be given a smack of the cattle-prod to, followed by the quick swipe of a cloth which I assumed had been doused in some sort of disinfectant.   Mere seconds after, a tattoo gun would be shown to etch something into the left forearm of the unperson (never the right, I noticed), and as soon as the ritualistic process was completed, the newly branded creature would be given a rolled-up jumpsuit, as though the brief trauma they’d just experienced was deserving of a single set of poor-fitting, slate-colored clothes.  I wondered what would happen with the clothes we’d been forced to abandon.  Would they be regifted or burned?

                Finally, it was my turn, and I was already preparing for the worst.

                “Name.”  It wasn’t a question, it was a demand.  

                “Dahlia-Grace Newbury.” He quickly scrawled what I told him onto a large sheet of graphing paper wherein countless other names had also been recorded.

                “Age.”    

                “Twenty-two.”

                “Parents?”

                Both of them were dead; shot at random during a riot a few years back.

                “Does it matter? They’re dead.” I braced myself for the oncoming smack of the cattle-prod which loomed just out of reach.  The scribe seemed to meditate my inquiry for a moment.

                “No.  Any record of past or present diseases or impairments.”

                I didn’t think it would be a good time for sarcasm, otherwise, I would’ve simply stated that ‘womanhood was a disease all its own’.  Because as far as we've experienced over the past few months, that was more than just a theory; it was a fact. 

                “Endometriosis, infertility, and depression.”

                He gave a nod before my hand was crudely yanked forward, the icy press of a sharp-scented alcohol wipe painting my arm for a split-second before the undeniable hum of a tattoo-gun permeated the air. Luckily, the brief glance I’d had with the cattle-prod had built a subtle tolerance in me which caused the relentless needle to feel almost irritating rather than painful. 

                The gun stopped, and I glanced down at the reddening flesh.

                ‘W139-05b’    


End file.
